


Sticky

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aggression, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Himuro has nothing to say, not with his throat still tight with the frustration of their loss, and Murasakibara isn’t even eating anything, just staring ahead with his shoulders tight enough that Himuro’s a little glad he can’t see the other’s face for the cover of his hair." Frustration is the primary result of the Winter Tournament for Murasakibara and Himuro. They take it out on each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticky

Himuro doesn’t ask permission. Generally asking Murasakibara to make a decision is a quick way to irritate the other boy and to destroy any possibility of getting an answer, and Himuro leaned months ago that the best thing to do is to tell and take, that the effort of getting angry is usually beyond Murasakibara’s preferred state of passivity. So he announces, “I’m coming home with you,” as they’re walking out of the arena, without looking at the larger boy for an answer or a response.

It speaks to Murasakibara’s frustration with the game that he even hesitates; there’s a pause, a missed step as he glances at Himuro. But then he tips his head forward, his hair falls in front of his face, and the motion of his shoulders might be a shrug and might just be shifting out tension. But it’s not a no, and Himuro knows by now that that is the best he’s going to get.

Neither of them speak on the way back. Generally Himuro tries to keep a conversation or at least a monologue going, just to fill the silence. But he has nothing to say, not with his throat still tight with the frustration of their loss, and Murasakibara isn’t even eating anything, just staring ahead with his shoulders tight enough that Himuro’s a little glad he can’t see the other’s face for the cover of his hair.

The silence persists as they climb the stairs to Murasakibara’s apartment, as the larger boy ducks through the doorway and leaves it open for Himuro to shut behind him. By the time Himuro has his shoes off Murasakibara is halfway down the hallway, covering the distance with the long strides Himuro usually only ever sees in a game. When he catches up, comes around the corner to the bedroom, Murasakibara is stretched out on his perpetually too-small futon, face-down so his face is entirely obscured by his hair and with his arms angled up over his head like he can’t be bothered to fit himself into a more compact space.

Himuro doesn’t complain. It’s Murasakibara’s apartment, after all, he can do whatever he wants. And he’s not being kicked out himself, which is a good sign. Murasakibara doesn’t react when the other draws in next to him, kneels alongside his hip, reaches out to touch his shoulder; he doesn’t move at the contact, but his voice comes from under the fall of his hair flat and still.

“Don’t touch me, Muro-chin.” The nickname has no affection under it at all, just the regular cold distance of Murasakibara’s voice. “You disgust me.”

“I didn’t come home with you to not touch you,” Himuro says, ignoring Murasakibara’s demand and sliding his fingers down the back of the larger boy’s jersey. The fabric bunches under his fingers, thin and submissive to his touch as Murasakibara is not.

“I didn’t ask you to come home with me,” the other boy says, but he’s not pulling away, doesn’t move away even when Himuro catches the bottom edge of his jersey and pushes it up to expose an inch of pale skin against Murasakibara’s back. His skin is still sticky with the exertion of the game, Himuro’s fingers catch against the damp as he pushes up along the dip of the larger boy’s spine. Himuro doesn’t bother answering; he doesn’t have any real response to that, anyway, not when it’s strictly true. Instead he brings his hand sideways, lays both palms flat against the other’s broad back, and leans down to lick the salt off Murasakibara’s skin. That gets a reaction -- Murasakibara jerks under the contact, reaches around behind him to grab at Himuro’s shoulder.

“Stop it,” he says into the futon, still without lifting his head. “That’s disgusting.”

“No,” Himuro says, keeps pushing up the other’s jersey and following the path with his tongue. “I like the way your skin tastes.”

The hand at his shoulder tightens into a fist on his clothes in spite of the odd angle, and then Murasakibara is turning over, keeping his grip on Himuro’s shirt to hold him in place. His hair is tangled in front of his features but his eyes are brighter than Himuro has ever seen them before today, shining with anger rather than affection but at least it’s some kind of emotion, and Himuro’s not in the mood for gentle.

“I said stop,” Murasakibara grates, and Himuro leans into the hold at his shoulder, reaches down to press his fingers in against Murasakibara’s waist under his rumpled jersey.

“I just wanted you to turn over,” he says, and when he leans in the other boy doesn’t move to pull away, just watches him come in until their mouths collide.

Murasakibara’s not an active kisser, usually; he’s generally passive as he is in day-to-day life, willing to let Himuro do what he wants but rarely taking the lead himself. But there’s an edge to that, now, Himuro can feel the tension of restraint under the other boy’s stillness this time, and when he brings his hand down to dip under the edge of the other boy’s shorts Murasakibara hisses, leans in to push back against Himuro’s lips even before Himuro has touched against his half-hard length.

“I want you, Atsushi,” Himuro says without pulling back. A hand comes against the back of his head, makes a fist in his hair. “I want you, come on, let me have this.”

Usually Murasakibara would sigh and fall back to the futon, let Himuro do what he likes while doing his best to pretend he’s not going hard under the other boy’s touch in response to the other boy’s kisses. But usually he wouldn’t be kissing back, usually his fingers aren’t forming a fist in the other’s hair, and when he pulls at that fist and drags Himuro’s head back sharply it becomes clear these are not unrelated. The pull on his hair is forcing Himuro’s head back far enough that he’s looking at the ceiling, that he doesn’t pull away even when Murasakibara’s mouth comes in against the exposed skin of his throat, even when teeth catch at his skin and lips suck hard enough to leave a mark.

“You  _repulse_  me,” Murasakibara growls, and when he rocks up hard against Himuro’s stalled fingers he’s fully hard, the whole long length of him is right under the other boy’s touch. “You make  _demands_  of  _me_ ,  _today_ , after we  _lost_.” His free hand shoves at the bottom of Himuro’s jersey, pushed the fabric up high until the palm of his hand is lying flat against Himuro’s chest. It spans most of the other boy’s ribcage, Himuro can feel the weight of it with every speeding inhale he takes. “How  _dare_  you.”

“We both lost,” Himuro says, some impossible force taking over his vocal chords and rushing headlong into the unknown of Murasakibara’s reaction. “It wasn’t just me, you lost too.”

There’s a hiss, a gust of air coming through the other’s teeth, and then Himuro is falling, toppling to the floor as Murasakibara shoves his chest and lets his hair go at once. He looks up, flushed and defensive and  _angry_  as he hasn’t been in years, and Murasakibara is looming over him, leaning in between Himuro and the light overhead, his long hair falling to cast even deeper shadows over the other boy’s face.

“Don’t push me,” he says, and Himuro can feel the sound rumbling down in his chest like Murasakibara is savoring the words. “Muro-chin. Don’t.”

Himuro takes a breath. Some of the fight is leaving him, frightened into silence by the passive threat of the other boy’s sheer size, but arousal is stepping up to take its place, flushing his cheeks red and pulling tight at the front of his shorts.

“Atsushi,” he says. There’s no fight in his voice, just the heat under his tongue and tingling in his fingertips, and Murasakibara looks down at him, sighs like he’s just seen the missing piece of a puzzle.

“It won’t help,” he says. He reaches out, presses the palm of his hand hard against Himuro’s shorts, and the other boy groans, reaches out to grab at the larger boy’s wrist to hold the pressure there while he grinds forward against it. “This won’t make it so we won.”

“I don’t care,” Himuro manages, his voice shaking but the words clear enough. “I don’t care, just. You’re  _better_  than me, right?” The bitterness is like fire in his mouth, scorching his tongue and twisting his words sharp behind his teeth. “So  _show_  me, Atsushi, show me that you’re  _worth_  it.”

Murasakibara  _tsks_ , pulls his hand away like Himuro’s not holding it at all, like it takes no effort at all to break the other boy’s grip. His fingers close on the other’s hip, shove sharp and hard, and Himuro twists over onto his stomach almost before he realizes what’s happening. He’s just getting his bearings, laying his palms flat on the ground to push himself up, when the other boy’s fingers catch at the back of his shorts and start to pull the fabric down. The elastic catches on his length, pulls painful for a moment before it slides free. Murasakibara doesn’t tell him to move, doesn’t ask him to do anything, just jerks sharply enough on the fabric that Himuro’s shorts are coming free of his feet before he realizes it. He’s still trying to reconcile what’s happening with the larger boy’s usual passivity when the hand comes back to his hip, when another grabs at his knee and pushes his legs wider. Himuro takes a breath, starts to arch his back to press up into the touch of fingers on suddenly bare skin, and Murasakibara is  _there_ , his legs shoving against Himuro’s and leaning in so he’s grinding up against the other boy, so Himuro can feel the resistance of his cock through his shorts.

“I’ll show you,” Murasakibara says, and it’s not a threat at all, it’s just a statement, but the slow sincerity of the words makes Himuro shudder and rock himself hard against the floor. There’s an increase of pressure, the weight of Murasakibara leaning in over Himuro’s back. The hand moves from his hip but Himuro can’t move, he can barely breathe shoved down against the floor like this, and he can feel Murasakibara’s cock hard against his ass and he  _wants_ , he wants more than he has ever wanted before, he wants so badly he’s shaking with it. When he tips his head up he can see Murasakibara’s fingers close on the bottle next to the bed, can see the slow sweep of the other’s body, can feel the flex of the other’s shoulders as he pushes himself back upright. Then the weight is gone, the promise of pressure absent, and Himuro knows what’s coming and it’s still too slow.

“Faster,” he says. He tips his head down to tuck his face against the floor, wiggles one hand down between his hips and the floor so he can get a grip on his length and start stroking over himself. “Faster, Atsushi, hurry up.”

“You’re always in such a hurry,” Murasakibara says, even his words slow and heavy. “You don’t want me to go any faster.”

Himuro opens his mouth to protest, to point out that  _he_  usually goes a lot faster than this, but then fingers touch against him and instead of coherency he groans, anticipation more than he can stand flooding through him like fire. Murasakibara’s  _never_  done this, he only ever watches Himuro do all the work, and even then this angle is  _far_  different, Himuro can feel the larger boy’s eyes on him in the gentle slide of his fingers. Murasakibara’s hand shifts, his fingers line up, and Himuro is just sucking in a breath of expectation when one of the other boy’s fingers slides into him. He makes some sound, he doesn’t know what -- it’s half protest and half moan, the other boy’s hands are as much bigger than Himuro’s as all the rest of him, his fingers longer and wider, and then Murasakibara twists his hand and pushes in against Himuro, and that  _is_  a moan from his throat, perfectly audible in spite of the way his mouth is pressed to the floor.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” Murasakibara says, sounding faintly bored, as if there are dozens of more interesting things he could be doing. “You’re filthy, Muro-chin, you’re  _liking_  this.”

Himuro bucks into his hand involuntarily, embarrassment and arousal fighting for control over the flush suffusing his skin. “More,” he manages, turns his head so Murasakibara can hear him clearly. “I want two, two fingers,  _faster_.”

Murasakibara sighs, the same way he does when Himuro makes him go to practice, but there’s the press of another finger alongside the first and Himuro doesn’t care, Murasakibara can pretend to be as disinterested as he wants if he’ll just  _act_. Two is almost enough, at least for a moment; Himuro groans in satisfaction, strokes harder over himself, and Murasakibara’s free hand closes on his hip, steadies into a grip that feels deceptively casual although when Himuro shifts experimentally he can’t move at all.

“You wanted faster,” Murasakibara says, and the words are a warning even if his tone isn’t, and then he starts to thrust with his fingers. It starts slow, the first stroke enough that Himuro whines and rocks back for more, but then the second is a little faster, a little harder, and then the third comes, and Himuro begins to see where this is going.

“Oh god,” he says, and he’d turn his head back down to muffle his voice but he can’t  _breathe_ , he needs all the air he can get, and Murasakibara is thrusting hard enough that Himuro would be rocking forward but for the hold on his hip. Himuro’s still stroking over himself, it’s all out-of-time now and only when he remembers to, but the friction of his hand offers relief as much as satisfaction, and then Murasakibara’s angle shifts slightly and there’s a starburst of sensation that tears a wail of pleasure from the smaller boy’s throat.

“You want this,” Murasakibara observes, and thrusts in again, just misses the spot so Himuro hisses in mingled frustration and desperation. “You’ve wanted this for a while.” It’s not a question and Himuro can’t deny it, not when he’s groaning in time with the movement of the other boy’s hand inside him. “It’s not enough to fuck yourself on my cock, you want me to shove you down and use you.” His fingers hit home again and Himuro’s hand jerks involuntarily, his throat closes around another moan.

Murasakibara heaves a sigh. “This is  _exhausting_ , Muro-chin.” He draws his hand free and Himuro gasps a breath, tries to slow the frantic stroke of his hand over himself and even his breathing while there’s a shift of cloth as Murasakibara gets his shorts down, while the sound of lube catching sticky on skin fires the smaller boy’s imagination and he resists the urge to look back. “It’s a pain to be with you.”

There’s slick pressure against Himuro’s leg, Murasakibara’s length bumping against him as he lines himself up, and the smaller boy takes a breath and lifts his head to say, “You don’t seem to be opposed, Atsushi.”

A hand closes on his hair, shoves his face down against the floor, and Murasakibara hisses, “Shut up.” He shifts, his cock lines up with Himuro’s body, and the other boy has only just taken a breath when Murasakibara starts to push into him.

He’s going slowly, as far as these things go, probably slower than Himuro usually goes himself when he’s on top. But the angle is different, the hand holding Himuro to the floor is frightening and thrilling at once, and however slow he’s going Himuro has no control over the pace. And Murasakibara is  _big_ , big enough that even with experience, even when he’s in control, Himuro is always a little shocked by the first wave of pressure. He groans, not sure if he’s encouraging or protesting and too lost in the wave of sensation cascading through his body to have any chance to control the sound.

“Move your legs,” Murasakibara says, and the unprecedented heat in his voice, the tension audibly shifting under the words, makes Himuro obey instantly, slide his knees farther apart so he drops down an inch lower to the ground. Murasakibara hums in satisfaction, his other hand comes down to close against Himuro’s waist, and then he thrusts the rest of the way in all at once and blows coherency right out of Himuro’s head.

“You’re disgusting, Muro-chin,” Murasakinara says, pulling back an inch before he thrusts back forward sharply and forces another moan from Himuro’s mouth. “Jerking off while your teammate fucks your ass, you were hard just thinking about this before I even ever touched you.” The fingers form a fist of dark hair, draw Himuro’s head back at an angle until his breathing is drawing ragged and strained in his throat. “I can hear you moaning, you’re shaking.”

Murasakibara’s hand on Himuro’s hair shifts, comes sideways so he’s holding Himuro’s face down against the floor while his thumb settles against the back of the other boy’s neck, slides over the skin in what is very nearly a caress. “Keep jerking yourself off, Muro-chin.” He draws back, farther this time, and when he rocks forward Himuro shifts even in spite of the steadying force of Murasakibara’s hands on him, has to shut his eyes against the flash of pleasure from the impact. “I want you to come before I do,” and that’s too much already, Himuro is certain Murasakibara won’t have to wait long even before he begins stroking over himself in earnest. Murasakibara stops talking after that, and Himuro would consider that a loss except that he can’t focus on words anymore, not really, and the sound of the larger boy’s breathing coming harder, gasping in his throat as he thrusts harder and faster into Himuro, is better than any words could be.

Himuro’s vision is fading out into white, his breathing is as far beyond his control as the now-continual waver of moaning coming from his throat, he can  _feel_  his orgasm cresting in his blood, when Murasakibara’s hand shoves against his head again, pushing him down against the floor by way of getting his attention. “Don’t come on my floor,” the larger boy says, sounding as heated as Himuro has ever heard him, and for a moment Himuro doesn’t know  _what_  he’s going to do if not that. Then he forces his free hand under himself, drags the edge of his jersey down over his hand, and he’s just got the fabric in place when his orgasm hits, sends him rocking forward and shuddering into pleasure under Murasakibara’s hold. The larger boy doesn’t pause to give him a chance to recover, keeps pushing into him while Himuro is still shaking with the electric flare of pleasure rippling under his skin. The thumb at the back of his neck goes tense, digs in sharply to his spine, and Himuro gets his mouth to work long enough to whimper “ _Atsushi_ ” just as the other boy bucks forward and comes with a groan so low Himuro can feel it in his bones as much as he can feel the pulse of pleasure that runs through the other boy’s body.

Murasakibara stays still for a moment, leaning heavily against his hold on Himuro and panting for breath; then he slides out, shifts sideways and drops onto his back on the futon, looking like he intends to never move again. Himuro blinks at the other’s face, idly stares at the way his hair catches against the sweat collecting at the back of his neck.

“That was tiring,” Murasakibara says, and shuts his eyes.

Himuro laughs, startled into amusement in spite of his own exhaustion. After a moment he gets himself up onto an elbow, moves in until he’s pressed up against Murasakibara’s side and can rest his head on the other boy’s shoulder.

“Get off,” the larger boy demands with no fire. “You’re sticky.”

“It’s your fault,” Himuro says against the other boy’s clinging jersey. “Be generous.”

“Get off,” Murasakibara says again, but he makes no move to enforce his order. When Himuro doesn’t move for another minute, his arm moves in so his fingers land heavy on the other’s waist, he heaves a sigh of resignation into Himuro’s hair, and when Himuro drapes his arm over the other boy’s stomach he doesn’t move away.


End file.
